Golden visions, are ye flown? Over the waters are blinking Many a thousand fair star; Gentle mists are drinking Round the horizon afar. IF I, dearest Lily, did not love thee, How this prospect would enchant my sight! And yet if I, Lily, did not love thee, Could I find, or here or there, delight? Flower Salute.
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Tell it me! By the rock near the wave, Where her first kiss she gave, On the greensward, to me,— Something I see! Is it she? May ye swell, twin-berries tender, Juicier far,—and with more splendor Ripen, and more speedily! Peace, rest have flown! How shall I fly? Forestwards hie?
Vain were all strife! Bright crown of life, Turbulent bliss,— Love, thou art this! ON yonder lofty mountain A thousand times I stand, And on my staff reclining, Look down on the smiling land. My grazing flocks then I follow, My dog protecting them well; I find myself in the valley, But how, I scarcely can tell.
Full sad the shepherd must be. HOW happens it that thou art sad, While happy all appear? Thine eye proclaims too well that thou Hast wept full many a tear. WHAT pulls at my heart so? What tells me to roam? What drags me and lures me From chamber and home? How round the cliffs gather The clouds high in air! I fain would go thither, I fain would be there! The sociable flight Of the ravens comes back; I mingle amongst them, And follow their track.
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Round wall and round mountain Together we fly; She tarries below there, I after her spy. Now door and gate are in ashes, And all around is so still; And over the fallen ruins I clamber just as I will. This heart, how firm and wild! Lily, I fly from thee! How dreary, how dead doth the world still appear, When only half-dried on the eye is the tear!
Never dry, never dry, Tears that unhappy love sheddeth! THOU who comest from on high, Who all woes and sorrows stillest, Who, for twofold misery, Hearts with twofold balsam fillest, Would this constant strife would cease! What are pain and rapture now? Blissful Peace, To my bosom hasten thou!
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Wait, then, and thou Soon wilt find rest. Murmur, stream, the vale along, Never cease thy sighs; Murmur, whisper to my song Answering melodies! Sweep with finger bold the string, Then the book one moment see: But read not! And each page thine own will be! Pecht del published by george barrie [Editor: illegible word] [Editor: illegible word] Goethe's Mother. Familiar Songs What we sing in company Soon from heart to heart will fly. We, thus united, Think of, with gladness, Rapture and sadness, Sorrow now flies.
Old the connection, New-born the prize! Thank, for this, Fortune, Wavering blindly! Thank all that kindly Fate may bestow! Over the old one, Wrinkles collected, Sad and dejected, Others may view; But, on us gently Shineth a true one, And to the new one We, too, are new. WHY pacest thou, my neighbor fair, The garden all alone? We six-together then began A banquet to consume, When lo! OH, prophetic bird so bright, Blossom-songster, cuckoo hight! In the fairest time of year, Dearest bird, oh!
Hearest thou? A loving pair Fain would to the altar fare; Yes! Say, how long must they still wait?
Silent yet! Only two years patient be! But if we ourselves please here, Will pa-pa-papas appear? Ever, ever, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, coo! Coo cuck-oo, coo cuck-oo, Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo! Life is one continued feast— If we keep no score, at least. If now we together dwell, Will true love remain as well? Gracefully ad infinitum. Then gladly glow to-night, And let our hearts combine! Who in our circle lives, And is not happy there?
We know no grief or pain, Though all things fall and rise; Long may we thus remain!
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Eternal be our ties! Should the verdure give me joy? Fast begin to ripen these, And the rest already shoot. Be then the beginning found With the end in unison, Swifter than the forms around Are themselves now fleeting on! Then once more be merry, and banish all woes! To-day still, as yesterday, glimmers the star; Take care from all heads that hang down to keep far, And make but the future thine own.
IN this noble ring to-day Let my warning shame ye! Listen to my solemn voice,— Seldom does it name ye.